


Pictures at an Exhibition

by AnalystProductions



Series: Pictures [1]
Category: Death Note
Genre: Gen, THE INVENTOR SQUAD !!!!!!!!, Trevor and Quillsh mean a lot to me he L P, and trEVOR - GOD I LOVE TREVOR THE CINNAMON ROLL., basically showing glimpses of L + Watari's life before Kira, harold is an asshole lmao, i could talk forever about the watari's inventor squad, i cried writing this enjoy, introducing!, nancy is the bEST, so . british., the inventor squad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6865165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnalystProductions/pseuds/AnalystProductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Wammy, I was thinking about one of your little projects for the orphans the other day.”</p><p>Little is an understatement. Quillsh has opened at least thirty orphanages across the globe, all of which house a collection of very gifted and wonderful children. All of them have promising futures, and even more importantly: the promise of any future. Nancy bites down on a comment, picking up a biscuit instead of pandering to Harold’s games.</p><p>// </p><p>Glimpses into the life of Quillsh Wammy, "the inventor of the hour", and the beginnings of the World's Greatest Detective L. Seen through Quillsh's participation in the EIS (English Inventors Society) with esteemed friends Nancy Moore, Trevor Halloway and estranged former colleague Harold Lotus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pictures at an Exhibition

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy oh boy i am so sooo SOOOO excited to share this story with you. LIKE REALLY EXCITED WOAH. I think I definitely will write more about Watari and the inventor squad it's very important to me.
> 
> I really hope you enjoy, it feels very close to my heart. and Mussorgsky destroyed my soul when writing this.

**_15th December, 1986_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Exeter, England_ **

Quillsh Wammy steps into the lobby of Trevor’s country house, navy suit freshly pressed and neatly tailored. A banner hangs over the hallway ahead, a hideously bright yellow with purple text. His lips curve upwards beneath the moustache he’s growing. Nancy Moore undoubtedly took it upon herself in pinning it up, as a matter of pride. He’s evermore certain that’s the case because he has to _duck_ to get under it. Nancy would ask for help from nobody, apparently not even a ladder.

But he supposes, it is a rather special occasion. Today, EIS - _English_ _Inventors Society_ \- has hit its 20th year. Nowadays, it’s less of a society. Back in the 60s when it formed, the society was thriving. A huge collection of brilliant, innovative people would come together once a year to discuss their own creations, debate the validity of other inventions and engage in general discourse surrounding creativity. Often, the meetings would take place at the British Museum.

Trevor’s stately home, with 5 acres of land and an unused tennis court, isn’t a huge step down - despite the obvious absence of artefacts. _In our whole twenty-eight years, I don’t recall you ever playing tennis, Trevor._ Quillsh had said over the phone last week at the boastful comment of having a tennis court. The remark had been met with a splutter of laughter, then: _Well, Harold has one._

 _Only you, my dear friend, would go to such lengths to chip away at Harold’s pride._ Quillsh had tutted into his earl grey tea.

As the years came and went, inventors did too. Slowly, the society's numbers dwindled. Until just four of them remained, agreeing to pause their busy schedules to reconnect at least every eighteen months. In addition to that, Nancy, Trevor and Quillsh met more frequently. But they would never dare tell Harold that.

“Ah! _The inventor of the hour_ has arrived.” A warm, rich voice pulls Quillsh into the present. And Quillsh would recognise that voice anywhere. Fondness is etched into every syllable. He looks over to Trevor, tipping the hat on his head politely. Trevor, however, is having none of that. Of course. The man leaps out of the tartan arm chair, welcoming Quillsh into a firm embrace.

“Mhm. _Past_ the hour, too.” another man in the corner quips snarkily. He taps his rolex for emphasis. Clearly, he’s displeased with Trevor’s _glowing_ words. “You’re twenty-two minutes late, Wammy.”

The years haven’t lessened the tension between Harold Lotus and Quillsh Wammy. Harold is extravagance and overindulgence, he squanders and takes. In comparison, Quillsh is subtly and finesse, he provides and gives. Working together for six years had proven their outlook on life did not mix well. As colleagues in the secret service, developing weapons for agents, they had seldom seen eye-to-eye. And Harold had always been bitter that Quillsh’s ideas were favoured over his own.

“Not all of us choose to invest our fortunes into the latest sports cars, Harold.” is what the _inventor of the hour_ smoothy settles for. Trevor beams in delight beside him, clasping his shoulder tightly.

“I almost forgot,” Harold pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I’m surrounded by _philanthropists_.”

“Oh _do be quiet_ , Harold!” None other than Miss Nancy Moore snaps irritably as she slips into the room, a book tucked under her arm.

“Hello Nancy, how are you?” Quillsh greets, extending a hand to the only woman he knows that is capable of wearing the most alarming shade of yellow he has ever seen in his life. Yet she wears it with such class and endearing confidence. That’s Nancy all over, a truly fantastic lady.

“All the better for seeing my favourite chappy.” she squeezes his hand lightly, crinkles building around the corners of her eyes when she laughs. Quillsh leans over to kiss those spots gently. Today she’s wearing a long skirt with a blazer, both sunflower yellow. A jewelled brooch of a swarovski swan is clipped to the front of her blazer. Her grey hair is tucked into a neat bun.

“So what do you think of the old place, Quillsh?” Trevor asks, inviting Quillsh further into the study to sit down at the mahogany coffee table Harold hasn’t left.

“It’s very charming,” Quillsh nods, pouring some tea from the china pot on the table. He takes a sip, glancing over to the tall man and really looking at him.

There are more lines on Trevor’s face now, but his hazel eyes are always getting younger and younger. Trevor is in love with creation, it’s a treat to watch him discuss his latest inventions. The house is riddled with quirky items, placed in humble places. Quillsh suspects this is deliberate, a private challenge for guests to find them. Though in general, the house is magnificently furnished with a classical theme which encompasses the age of the house. It’s not too large, considering the amount of land the plot has. Trevor has always lived alone after all, besides the two years he and Quillsh rented together.

“And it’s the epitome of your fine self.” Quillsh can’t help add softly, and a little coyly just because it’s _Trevor_ he’s talking to. As expected, the whimsical man almost chokes on his tea, setting the cup down shakily. The dusting of crimson on his cheeks is probably due to embarrassment at being complimented. Quillsh is never quite sure, and he has never had the courage to ask.  

“I say,” pointing to Quillsh, Trevor laughs. He doesn’t trust himself to pick up his cup yet. “this fellow does flatter me so!”

Nancy glances between them with an exasperated smile.

“It’s not flattery if it’s completely true, Trevor.” she settles for, noticing Quillsh seems at a rare loss at what to say, and _Haughty Harold_ is chewing on words nobody wants to hear. “The house is lovely.”

“Shame about the weather, isn’t it?” Harold finally speaks in his mousy voice, not offering his opinion on the house. Trevor looks disappointed, but says nothing. Quillsh has always admired how extremely tolerant he can be. Still, the words prompt the group to glance out the window. It’s a grey, dismal English day. Typical really. A tour of the grounds is certainly off-limits without wellies and umbrellas.

“Next time, you should all come to my villa in Cote D’Azur.”  

There’s a brief pause at the pretentious suggestion, an attempt at needless one-upmanship. Quillsh wonders why Harold still bothers coming to the meetings with such an attitude. But perhaps, in a strange way, they are his only friends.   

“Or my Chateau in Lorraine.” Nancy quips back sarcastically, flamboyantly twirling her hand in the air. “C’est _magnifique._ ”

“How about _both_?” Trevor rubs his palms together eagerly, bursting into a hearty laugh which absorbs all the awkwardness and dissolves it. Both Quillsh and Nancy join him; even Harold smiles despite himself.

“Wammy, I was thinking about one of your little projects for the orphans the other day.”

Little is an understatement. Quillsh has opened at least thirty orphanages across the globe, all of which house a collection of very gifted and wonderful children. All of them have promising futures, and even more importantly: the _promise_ of any future. Nancy bites down on a comment, picking up a biscuit instead of pandering to Harold’s games.

“I was en route to presenting one of my latest inventions in St. Petersburg, and the darn thing broke _on the street._ ” Harold rakes a hand through his hair, eyebrows furrowed at the memory. “I tried everything. It just wasn’t working. So I pull up at a tool shop, a small merchant’s place - ‘ _Marikov’s’_ it was called. Next thing you know, this child appears by the window. He must’ve been following me the whole time, probably trying to pickpocket me.”

Nancy rolls her eyes, huffing a little.

“I am not embellishing the story,” Harold insists, “he was definitely homeless, his clothes were positively filthy.”

“So that makes the child a thief?” She challenges, taking a sip of the tea.

“Naturally,” Harold declares with a shrug. Before Nancy can respond, he continues. “This child doesn’t say a single word. But he steps inside and takes my invention from my hands. And by gosh-!”

Leaning over the table, Harold shakes his head in disbelief; it’s the most animated Quillsh has ever seen him, or his dull grey eyes.

“The child...the child fixed it in _moments_!”

Quillsh wants to say that _anyone_ could probably manage such a task given the quality of Harold’s inventions, but he’s also intrigued by the story. So he listens carefully.

“Next time you’re in St. Petersburg, you ought to hover around ‘ _Marikov’s’,_ Wammy. I think he’d be suited to one of the institutions you run.”

 _Orphanages,_ Quillsh wants to correct. He doesn’t.

“I’m going to St. Petersburg next week actually, Harold.”

Harold raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“Hm? Fancy that...”

Quillsh doubts he’s being sincere, considering _he brought it up last week on the phone._

_ _

**_20th December, 1986_ ** **_  
_ ** **_St. Petersburg, Russia_ **

The winter is chilling, snow covering the ground. Quillsh _does_ stop by Marikov’s, as Harold suggested. It’s a quaint little shop, but he’s not interested in the shop itself. Twelve minutes of hovering, and the pale boy Harold must’ve been talking about finally appears tentatively. His eyes are abnormally large, though that may just be a result of how tiny the child is. He has dark curly hair, a little overgrown and shaggy-looking. The curiosity and intensity of his stare is something Quillsh can’t look away from.  

Silently, he pulls out the scarf from his bag and offers it out. Taking it without hesitation, the boy wraps it round his neck. He smiles a little at the gift, shuffling a bit closer.

“The man who couldn’t fix his pointless machine said you would come. You’re much nicer than he is - _and smarter_ \- I can tell.” the boy says in English, startling Quillsh with how well-spoken he is. But he’s also amused at the description of Harold. _The man who couldn’t fix his pointless machine._ Nancy is really going to love that, she may even write it in her journal.

Taking Quillsh’s hand, the boy tugs.

“холодно.” he slips into Russian. “пойдем!”

 

 **_2nd February, 1987_ ** **_  
_ ** **_London, England_ **

They’re dining at The Ritz tonight. Nancy made the reservation hastily after Christmas. 1987 is a busy year for all of them. Trevor’s lecturing Engineering Sciences at Harvard. Nancy’s launching her exhibition of her best inventions, refreshed by the handy-work of some of the world’s best artists. And Harold. Harold begins a worldwide cruise on his luxury, _and ridiculous_ , superyacht next week. In short, the Springtime is the only period where all four of them are in the same country.

So here they are, with half an empty bottle of _Krug, Grande Cuvée_ at the middle of the table.

“And then, the scoundrel turns to me and says, _do you have one of these_ ? Well, of bloody _course_ I do!! I _invented_ the damn thing!”

Nancy bursts into a bright peal of laughter. Her hair’s shorter now, falling just below the ears. It accentuates her cheekbones perfectly. Quillsh shakes his head, smiling quietly. Trevor’s stories are always a joy to listen to. He’s so animated and natural, roping everyone into what he’s saying. Quillsh concedes that Trevor’s letters are just the same, and are worth the wait every time.

“A finely-told tale, Trevor.” Harold tilts his glass towards the man before taking a drink. Then casually, he turns to Quillsh.

“How’s that orphan of ours doing?” Knowing Harold, he’s been waiting to bring the topic up all night.

 _He’s no concern of yours._ To this very day, Quillsh has refused to share the name of the child with Harold. Only Trevor and Nancy have been entrusted with that much knowledge, and out of respect for how much of a secret it is, they rarely ever speak it. Yet here Harold sits, arrogant enough to act as if he is the man behind every single achievement of L’s, no matter how big or small.

“L is fine.”

_You may have found him first, but you also did nothing to help a starving, homeless orphan when you have more money than all of us at this table put together. You walked away. I won’t forget that, neither will L. He wants nothing to do with you._

“Well, a little _birdie_ told me,” Harold pours the champagne into their glasses, speaking in a blase manner. “He solved the Farringdon case, in just four hours.”

Quillsh doesn’t know _how on earth_ Harold knows that. It’s been carefully hushed up by himself and Roger. The story circulating Interpol is that a new set of lab results proved the killer’s identity. Quillsh insisted it wasn’t made known who had requested the tests, and thus who single-handedly caught the culprit. But evading the truth is pointless now that Harold has it in his palms.

“Yes, he did.”

“That case has been closed for _fifteen years,”_ the rich blond man, with a nose more crooked than Quillsh remembers and a lazy left eye, gasps. “That’s extraordinary.”

“L is special.” Quillsh admits, a swell of pride in his chest when considering the boy’s latest accomplishments.

“He’s _brilliant_ , Wammy. Congratulations, old chap.” Harold holds up his champagne flute as means of a toast. Reluctantly, Quillsh raises his own, uncertain of where this is going. Nancy follows suit, eyeing Harold cautiously. “That little orphan of yours is going to be the best spy this country has ever had.”

Something akin to rage burns through Quillsh’s veins. Because now it all makes sense, _this_ is what Harold wanted. He was never thinking about the welfare of a homeless child. He wanted Quillsh to nurture L’s genius and enhance it, so the secret service could turn him into their biggest and best trophy. The thought disgusts him. Harold clinks their glasses together, smirking as he takes a sip. Nancy glances over to Trevor for assistance, she’s seething. He reaches over to grab her hand, _I know. I know, and I agree. But Quillsh can hold his own._

“He’s not going into the secret service, Harold.” Quillsh says firmly, clasping the glass so tightly he’s afraid for a moment it may shatter. But it’s better than letting the anger seep into his voice and give Harold the satisfaction of a reaction.

Setting his glass down, Harold presses his eyes shut for a moment as if to compose himself.  

“Quillsh.” Using his first name is _never_ a good thing. “I know you’re fond of him, but consider the _possibilities_ of what he could do for this country. He already speaks six languages, his IQ is remarkable, he just solved a case nobody else in the _world_ could-”

“-He’s just a child.” It’s Trevor who speaks up on Quillsh’s behalf now, a frosty gleam in his eyes.

“Ah, yes.” Harold laughs humourlessly. “And _Watari_ treats him just like a child, doesn’t he?”

Once again, Quillsh doesn’t know _how_ Harold knows that. Watari is the name he’s coined very recently as L’s future handler. L already studies and works more efficiently than most adults. Wherever L wants to go and whatever he wants to do, Quillsh knows he’ll go further than anyone before him. And anyone after, for that matter. Yet still... _W_ _ho is providing Harold with his information on L?_

The silence grows into an unpleasant one, thick and heavy. Nancy’s jaw is clenched and she’s leaning slightly forwards in her seat. It’s very possible that she could dive across the table and punch Harold square in the face at any second. To Quillsh’s relief, she doesn’t. Although given the sudden scrunching of Harold’s face, she’s _definitely_ dug her heel into his leg. Hard.

“L is not a weapon.” Trevor declares, prying the champagne flute out of his dear inventor’s hand gently. Really, Quillsh is grateful for this because he’s either going to break it or spill the contents all over Nancy’s beautiful dress by mistake. He’s grateful for both of their support. Harold is a relentless force when he wants to be.

“Not _yet,_ but we have our eye on him _-_ ”  

“-For goodness sake, Harold! _Enough!_ ” Nancy spits, unable to sit by and listen to this nonsense any longer.

Another round of silence passes between them. This time it’s worse. Quillsh feels twitchy, unsure what exactly he should do now. Trevor looks both irritated and confounded by Harold’s _audacity._ Out of everyone, it’s Harold who speaks.

“You’re making a big mistake, Wammy.” he stands up, brushing down his pristine cream suit. The colour does nothing for him, his skin is tanned by the sensation of the recently popularised sunbed. He’s the personification of ugly, recurring greed. “L could be _so much more_ , if you let him.”

“I refuse to appease you, or your _vicarious visions_ for L.” Quillsh is calm enough to lift his glass again. He takes a sip, then another, and another, whilst Harold storms off.

Glass now empty, Quillsh looks over at Nancy and Trevor. Nancy automatically leans over to refill it. Moments later, Trevor orders another bottle of Krug for them. He tells the waiter to bill the entirety of their evening to Harold Lotus.

_ _

Later that night, when L creeps into his room after a bad dream, Quillsh doesn’t send him back to his own room. Instead, he lets L stay.

 

 **_13th August 1991  
_ ** **_Romsey, England_ **

Quillsh doesn’t see Harold ever again after that night in ‘87. Nancy and Trevor apparently still keep in contact with him, albeit begrudgingly. Quillsh asked them why once, and the answer continues to startle him: _To protect you. And L._ He supposes that’s for the best, too. Harold is capable of plucking what he needs from anymore. Shortly after the disastrous dinner that become crystal clear: Quillsh discovered that the leak of information had come from friend and partner in running _Wammy’s House_ , Roger Ruvie. Harold had allegedly paid an impromptu visit to _Wammy’s House_ when Quillsh was away, and Roger had been in quite a bind.

Roger, mortified, apologised profusely to Quillsh, not at all aware of Harold’s intentions for L. Quillsh believed him completely, of course he did. But even so, he makes the decision from that moment on to keep L’s affairs at _Wammy’s House_ explicitly private and undocumented.

The Farringdon case in ‘87 had just been the start.

Quillsh had continued to encourage L to study as much as possible, but L realised he’d found his calling. He found so much enjoyment out of picking up old cases, and he didn’t stop. For a few years, it became his favourite hobby between completing some schoolwork. And then, _then_ he started working on live cases. With one look, L could outdo an entire task force. With one glance over the details, L could profile the culprit better than any agent Quillsh knew. Patterns had emerged, rumours were circulating in the police. And Quillsh couldn’t hide who was behind all of this for much longer.

He _knows_ that L is going to be a fully-fledged detective in his own right. _Very soon._ Preparations to keep information about L’s identity, and age, are already being made. Trevor assists most nights in encrypting personal files through the computer. Nancy goes to St. Petersburg, and stays there for a total of five months to track down what remains of _Lawliet._ The search takes her to many unexpected corners of the globe, and by the end of it she ensures no record of _Lawliet_ exists in writing. With the help and diligence of two wonderful fellow inventors, Quillsh has made Lawliet untraceable.

The legacy of L, the World’s Greatest Detective, can finally begin.

Currently, the three inventors are sat around the tiny table in a hotel room Quillsh has rented for the evening. It’s dingy but cosy, nothing like their usual meetings. None of them seem to mind one bit.

“I was thinking of something like this for his official symbol.” He offers them a sketch in his notepad which is full of previous inventions. Quillsh has never been an amazing artist, but he’s able to capture his ideas succinctly. It’s the letter L, the left-hand side is slanted and curved, the bottom of the letter is a thick horizontal line woven with a few curls.

“It’s _almost_ there...” She reaches for her reading glasses, scanning the page again. “May I?”

“Please, do.” If anyone is capable of creating something equally striking and memorable, it’s Nancy. Her inventions are nothing short of miraculous. The exhibition in ‘87 was such a success, it became a critically acclaimed experience.

Nancy takes the pen, dipping the nib into the ink pot. She draws two parallel vertical curves. To the first, she adds a series of sharp flicks; one at the top and two in the middle. As opposed to the straight line Quillsh drew at the base of the letter, Nancy gives it more shape. Holding up the page, she glances between the two men. Trevor clasps his hands together, grinning.

“Oh yes! That has such character!” taking the page, he presses it into Quillsh’s hands enthusiastically. “Nancy is nothing short of marvellous!”

“Marvellous, indeed.” Quillsh nods, studying the letter in awe. Somehow, Nancy has managed to capture _everything_ he envisioned the symbol should. It’s engaging, unique. Serious, and even a little intimidating. L is going to _love it,_ Quillsh already knows. For the first time, he allows himself to be a _little_ excited about this whole thing as opposed to completely professional. Nancy spots the look on his face and laughs.

“I’m just getting started,” she takes the notepad back. “Next, we’ll work on _Watari’s_ symbol.”

“...You think I should have a symbol, also?” He hadn’t ever considered such a thing, L had been at the centre of his thoughts.

Trevor blinks, and Nancy casts him looks of surprise.

“You’re integral to L. Isn’t that right, Trevor?” the man beside Nancy nods. He looks over to Quillsh quietly, gaze lingering a few seconds longer than strictly necessary.

“Of course he is.”

 

As Quillsh predicted, when he shows L the designs, he approves of them immediately. L likes it _so much_ that he can’t help glancing over to the page every few minutes. Quillsh pretends not to notice, assuming L would be embarrassed if he acknowledges it.

“What about your symbol?” L asks a few hours later when Quillsh insists he get some sleep. “Nancy must’ve made you one too.”

Nodding, Quillsh takes the notebook and flips over a few pages to reveal the letter ‘W’ written in the similar cursive.

“You can see parts of the L in here.” L observes after a few seconds, pointing to parts of the symbol. It’s not something Quillsh realised, but upon closer inspection he spots exactly what L means. Inversions and segments of L’s symbol have been woven intricately into his own. But that’s not at all what Nancy intended. Of course. _You’re integral to L._ It’s the _L_ that takes after the W, despite coming afterwards in her creations.  

 _Oh, Nancy…_ Quillsh thinks with a soft smile. _Thank you._

_ _

**_13th September, 1994_ ** **_  
_ ** **_Winchester, England_ **

“L _said that_ to you?” Trevor exclaims over a glass of chardonnay, frowning at the man who sits opposite him in the booth.

“He was very upset.” Quillsh offers. “I told him I wanted him to take a break from cases temporarily.”

“That’s hardly surprising, there’s a lot of pressure on him to deliver results.” _And you._ Trevor doesn’t say, but the concern in his eyes whispers it. Sometimes, he feels this boy will be the death of Quillsh.

Though of course, Quillsh goes by ‘Watari’ now. Constantly, he is chasing after letters; L first and foremost. Even now, they’re but a few minutes from _Wammy’s House_ in a small pub in Winchester. Just in case Quillsh needs to up and leave promptly on account of doing something for the great detective L. L Lawliet, who is little more than 15 years old. Yet the teenager is solving complex crimes with ease every day and consulting with police all over the world. Quillsh speaks little about the job despite being _the face of L_. But Trevor knows he’s immensely proud.

“Last time I saw little Lawliet,” Trevor fiddles with his glass, breath hitching. “He had just turned 12.” pause. “The three of us skimmed stones over the pond.”

A sombre expression clouds Trevor’s face. It’s the last time he remembers spending so much time with Quillsh and little Lawliet. Lawliet sulked the entire afternoon because he couldn’t beat him at chess. _Uncle Halloway, you’re far too good at this._ Trevor had ruffled his hair fondly, insisting the only reason he was unbeatable is because he learnt from the very best.

“He’s a _teenager_ now, Trevor.” Quillsh smiles wistfully, adjusting the thin glasses on his face. “In any case, it doesn’t matter. He didn’t mean it.”

A little offended Quillsh thinks he can _lie_ , Trevor raises an eyebrow. The fact he’s steered the topic back to their argument proves it _does_ matter.

“But just last week, didn’t you catch him trying to sneak out?”

The teenager is a chaotic force, not to be handled lightly. L has always been particular, and he has always been resolved in his decisions. Even the terrible ones.

“It was for work.”

“ _This time,_ maybe.” Trevor emphasises pointedly, reaching over to pat Quillsh’s wrist. It’s a gesture of reassurance. “Should I-?”

“-He’ll write back to you soon.” Quillsh explains. “We’re due to go to Prague next week on a case.”

“So you’re _not_ temporarily taking him off cases?” He knew Quillsh would yield, _he’d give everything to L._ Trevor squeezes his wrist before pulling back, not noticing how Quillsh’s fingers reach out towards him only to miss.

“You know that I can’t Trevor,” Quillsh sighs, sounding a little discouraged. “It’s all he knows. Better the cases than anything else…” clearing his throat, he finishes the drink in his hands.

“Quillsh,” Trevor can’t get out of his seat as quickly as he used to, but the intent is still there. He pulls the man to his feet and into a hug, rubbing his back. He speaks softly into his shoulder; Quillsh shuts his eyes and listens.

“You’re the best man anyone could ever hope to have steering them into adulthood.”

 

When he gets back to _Wammy’s House_ , L is perched on the bed. The teenager’s eyes are bloodshot and he’s sniffling slightly. Quillsh pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He’s surprised that L doesn’t snatch it away, and actually lets him dab the wetness off his cheeks _._

“How about I make us some tea, L?”

L nods quietly in such a way only Quillsh can read: relief and gratitude.

 

 **_22nd December 2003  
_ ** **_Heathrow, England_ **

“Be careful, won’t you both?” Nancy pulls Quillsh into a tight hug, doing the same with Lawliet a moment later. The great detective grunts in surprise at the gesture. He’s _so tall_ now, though still as lanky and slender as she remembers from his teenage years.

“This is no different to every other case I have solved, Nancy.” L assures her, a little detachedly. His mind is already fixated on Kira, he can think of little else as they are about to take the private flight to Japan. This case _is_ different. He knows it’s _the case of the century_. It’s also the biggest case of his life.

“They’ll be just fine.” Trevor announces, patting Lawliet on the back. Nodding, L hunches over, lips twitching slightly.

“What do you think?” he asks curiously, widening his eyes and tilting his head. It’s extremely unsettling. Dragging a thumb across his lips slowly, L waits for an answer expectantly. And _good lord_ he’s gotten _so much better_ at playing Ryuzaki than when he first attempted the persona earlier this year. Quillsh stifles a laugh behind them, careful not to encourage L and his bizarre methods _too much._

“Well, he’s incredible _and_ credible.” Nancy offers, genuinely impressed with how abruptly L can change every aspect of his character, even down to what twinkles in those dark eyes.

“I think this is completely _outrageous!!_ And you know what? _I_ _love it_.” Trevor beams. He has the sudden urge to ruffle L’s hair, but stops himself. He’s not little Lawliet anymore, he’s a grown man. Delighted by the feedback, L casts them a final fleeting glance before going to board the plane parked a few metres away.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Trevor nudges Quillsh with his elbow.

“Tell me what, Trevor?”

“That you’d do a fine job with L.” The man’s voice is as warm as it was in ‘86, bursting with pride.

“That would not be possible without you both.” Quillsh admits quietly, steeling himself to leave. “There is much to be done on the flight, so I must bid you both farewell.” He removes his hat to bow his head towards them. _Of course_ , Trevor swoops in to clasp him tightly. Nancy watches with a lazy smile.

Then both L and ‘Watari’ are gone.

As the plane takes off into the sky, Trevor and Nancy can’t possibly know that this parting of ways was to be the last ever shared between them.

**__ **

**_26th November 2004  
_ ** **_Exeter, England_ **

Trevor is far too quiet. He burrows further into his own company, and doesn’t respond to any of her phone calls. Nancy would respect that, and his privacy, if it weren’t for yesterday’s newspaper headline proclaiming the death of beloved inventor Quillsh Wammy. It had come as a huge shock. Just last week, Quillsh had sent her an e-mail, passing on his best regards and enquiring as to how she was. _Now he was gone._

Nancy had felt her heart splinter into a thousand pieces as she had read countless obituaries on her dear friend. Many of them were an eloquent and wonderful summary of his life. But all of them were missing one thing: _L._ No mention of the great detective, the one that had become his entire world.

“Do you think…” Trevor’s voice shakes, eyes watery. “Do you think our boy Lawliet has passed too?”

The circumstances of Quillsh Wammy’s death were never stated. Given the nature of the Kira case, Nancy highly suspects the worst. _Quillsh would die for L._ But that would probably only ever have to happen if L himself were on the brink of death, too. She looks over to Trevor, pursing her trembling lips together tightly to try and contain the cry lodged into her throat. That’s enough confirmation for Trevor who starts weeping. His cries are rooted in melancholy. Nancy doesn’t remember ever hearing Trevor cry. Not like this, _never_ like this.    

“He was only 25 Nancy, _so young,_ so-” a horrible noise leaves his mouth, a sound that can’t be stifled by his hand over his mouth.

Nancy rushes to his side quickly, crouching by the tartan arm chair and squeezing his other hand. Tears finally spill from her eyes, her chin wobbles a little. Stroking her thumb across his hand, she swallows down the lump in her throat. It hurts. It hurts so much.

“They were going to come stay here with me a while,” Trevor gasps for air between sobs, reaching for the handwritten letter on the table. The letter he’s read a thousand times and memorised. “L assured me that once Kira was caught, they’d be here and...h-he’d finally beat me at chess.”

Nancy tries to laugh at that, but it comes out wrong. It’s jagged and broken. Resting her head against his arm, she presses her eyes shut and lets the tears fall quietly. For their friend, and L - for who will mourn Lawliet’s death, if not them? Who will _know_ he is gone, besides them? The thought distresses her deeply. Nancy opens her eyes when the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get the door,” Briskly, she stands on wobbly legs and leaves to answer. There, Roger Ruvie stands solemnly in a black suit.

“You’re too late. We found out through the _newspapers_.” Nancy tries to sound angry, but fails. Her voice is too shaky. “How long have you known, Roger?”

He doesn’t answer, stepping inside.

“I’m sorry, Nancy.” pause. “How is Trevor holding up?”

It’s a question for the sake of propriety more than anything else. Trevor’s cries are muffled, but with a house this quiet they’re still audible from the hallway. Roger grimaces, bowing his head.

“Harold isn’t coming, is he?” She already knows the answer to that.

“No, he’s not.” Roger removes his shoes. “But he sends his condolences.”

“I’m sure he does, the _tosser_ .” Scoffing, Nancy wipes her own eyes quickly. With a slow exhale, she turns to him. “Tell me the truth, was it _Kira_ who killed them?”

“I don’t have that information at this stage.” Roger replies honestly, inadvertently confirming L Lawliet is also dead.

A sombre piano melody rings out from the study. _Pictures at an Exhibition; Il Vecchio Castello._ It’s uneven, played by shaking hands and a man consumed by grief, but it’s still hauntingly beautiful. Trevor is both an amateur and a modest pianist, the depths of his expression are second to none. Despite his lack of technicality, the sentiment is always there. Roger and Nancy walk quietly into the study, listening to the piece.

When it's done, the three of them linger in the final notes. The chord feels like the end of an era as it ebbs away, succumbing to the power of silence. _L and Quillsh Wammy;_ a remarkable pair very few will ever know even existed in tandem. But Nancy doesn’t want their time to end. Nor Trevor; his fingers are stroking the piano keys.

“Play it again, would you?”

Trevor does.  

**Author's Note:**

> ;-; 
> 
> Harold is such a stuck-up snob omg. No-nonsense Nancy is my favourite. And Trevor, dear old Trevor. Let's not talk about Trevor because I will just cry and end up throwing a thousand things at you about him. 
> 
> His relationship with Quillsh reminded me a tad of that of A.E Housman and Moses Jackson. 
> 
> I did my dissertation at university on English artsong and the "English Folk Dance Society" founded by Cecil Sharp, with Vaughan Williams, George Butterworth and many more ahhhh - it just gave me such a clear vision of how I wanted to portray the Inventor's society. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it. I definitely expect to write more glimpses of their lives, I'm far too invested.
> 
> \- The Russian means: "it's cold" and "come on, then!/ let's go!"


End file.
